


Still Life in Black and Grey

by Leela



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-25
Updated: 2009-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-03 17:31:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leela/pseuds/Leela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skinner wanted to help Mulder, to hug him, do something to bring emotion back to that blank, shuttered face, return life to the huge, dark eyes. But that was impossible. There was nothing that an Assistant Director, that Mulder's superior could possibly do under these circumstances. He wasn't expected to comfort his agents. He'd never wanted to before Mulder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Life in Black and Grey

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2001.
> 
> Betas: M Fae Glasgow and batdina
> 
> This one's for the members of musk-slash, who betaed for me all those years ago, and kept us sane during the heights of XF insanity.
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not responsible for the fire in my old neighbourhood that inspired this story.

Walter Skinner grabbed the extra-large thermos from the trunk and stuffed it into his pocket. By the time he'd set the car alarm, the smell of charred wood, brick, and chemicals had seeped into his clothes, soaked into every pore, and lodged in the back of his throat. He sniffed cautiously, cataloguing the odours. Something missing. Something that should be there. He sifted through memory after memory, then figured out what it was. Jungle rot. Not something he needed to worry about.

Skinner closed his eyes against the rising tide of verdant green, stifling silence, and ripe heat. With an effort, he locked the memories back away. No time to waste on that now. He coughed, a harsh scraping that utterly failed to clear his throat, then straightened his shoulders and slid the now familiar barrier of professional impassivity over his face. He knew exactly how hard this was going to be, but he didn't need to let the whole world know. As ready as he would ever be to face the destruction, he strode rapidly through the crowd of onlookers and media. The cameras and microphones thrust in his direction might as well have been invisible for all the attention he paid to them.

Holding his identification out and visible, Skinner slowed down just enough for the police officers guarding the crowd control barrier to see the badge. As he passed through the space in the barrier, Skinner could feel the crowd surge behind him, but continued on without looking back. When he made it past the haphazardly parked fire trucks and other emergency vehicles, he finally stopped and surveyed what was left of the Descennes Gallery. The devastation was starkly outlined in the artificial light.

Bomber knew what he was doing, Skinner decided. Calculated the explosion sphere to do exactly what he wanted and very little more.

The art gallery was beyond repair, but there was only minimal damage to the buildings on either side. The front of the gallery's top floor had been blown out with the force of the blast. The picture windows that had fronted the lower floor were gone. The brickwork was damaged and fire-scarred. Rubble was strewn across the narrow alleys on either side of the building and filled the street in front. Glass and concrete, wood and metal. Blackened stone that might once have been marble. One wall leaned inward at a crazy angle. The other walls didn't look much safer. Water hurtled down from overheard hoses, dousing the remaining flames, protecting the surrounding buildings, and cooling the area.

Skinner coughed as a breeze brought smoke and grit in his direction. He wiped his stinging eyes with a handkerchief, shoving the white cotton streaked with black and grey back in a pocket. Too bad there hadn't been time to go home first and change into suitable clothes. He'd pushed the limit just waiting for the banquet staff to bring him the thermos of coffee. The Bureau would just have to replace his tuxedo and trenchcoat. He'd make sure of that. Shoes too, he sighed, as he became aware of his feet, soaked by the cold water streaming across the ground.

"Over here." Hoarse from smoke and suppressed emotion, Mulder's voice was almost unrecognizable "Hurry. She's still alive."

Mulder needed help. The thought made Skinner speed up. He raced toward Mulder, ignoring the sharp objects that spiked his feet through the soles of his shoes. The stony mask settled more firmly over his face as he took inventory of the tattered rags, shoes, and body parts scattered among the debris. Why the hell would anyone want to blow up an art gallery during an opening?

"I'm sorry, sir, but you can't go over there." A hand thudded into Skinner's chest, stopping him.

Skinner glared at the fireman. Why was this man getting in his way. The same cold, calculated look that reduced his agents to malleability slid off the smoke-stained fireman. Skinner flipped out his identification. "Assistant Director Skinner, FBI."

"Nice to meet you, Assistant Director Skinner." The fireman grinned, unperturbed. "You still can't go over there without protective gear."

"Then tell me where I can get some protective gear." Skinner's voice was quiet, but the words held the bite of an order.

"Behind you. Command post's set up on a table by the HazMat truck."

Tossing his trenchcoat and tuxedo jacket in a pile on the ground, Skinner shimmied into a borrowed pair of oversized yellow coveralls. He continued buttoning them as he headed back to where he'd seen Mulder. Before he could get more than a few steps, he was waylaid again, by one of the two men huddled in conference behind the table.

"AD Skinner?" The man held out a hand to Skinner and introduced himself. "Al Morris, Captain, Metropolitan Police. That's Battalion Chief John Tadewski."

Skinner silently cursed Morris for stopping him, as he shook Morris' hand. He searched for belligerence in the police captain's expression, but found only the bright flare of adrenaline. About four inches shorter than Skinner, Captain Morris looked like he had come up through the trenches. Stocky and graying. His slight paunch visible even through the bulky coveralls. More comfortable in a bar than a gym, Skinner guessed. Maybe he could work with this police captain. Maybe. He took a deep breath, smoke and grit scratching his throat again. It depended on what Mulder had done. Took a lot to force a police captain to go up the food chain to an AD with complaints.

The second man nodded in Skinner's direction, then flipped on a walkie-talkie and barked instructions to change the target of the hoses.

Morris rubbed at his eyes, smearing another layer of gray ash across his forehead and cheekbones. "Don't suppose you brought any decent coffee with you?"

Skinner dug into the pile of clothes to retrieve the thermos from his coat pocket. He'd only ever forgotten the coffee once. "Only thing I stopped for, after I extricated myself from that damn benefit. No cream or sugar. Just black and strong."

"Perfect." Morris filled three plastic cups with coffee. "Sorry to interrupt your evening."

"Don't be." Skinner glared over at the destruction. Mulder had already disappeared. Skinner ground his teeth. Why had he thought Mulder was calling to him? He turned his glare on the two men in front of him. "What did Agent Mulder do this time?"

Tadewski and Morris exchanged looks. Tadewski shrugged and gestured Morris to go ahead. Morris grimaced and said, "Well ... it's not so much what he's done as what he's refusing to do. Agent Mulder showed up at the site shortly after we got here. He must have been in the neighbourhood when we radioed for extra personnel to help with the rescue efforts." Morris cleared his throat and gulped some coffee. "He's been out there with our people ever since."

"And this is a problem?" Skinner's gaze sharpened, pinned Morris like a butterfly in a display case.

"No. That isn't the problem." Morris met Skinner's eyes. "My lead investigators think that Mulder knows something about the explosion, but he's refusing to talk to them. Mulder's got one of my guys so turned around that he's muttering about obstruction of justice."

Fuck. Skinner cursed under his breath. "Are they sure?"

"No, they're not sure. They're working on a hunch. No way to be sure until they've talked to him."

Fingers drumming against the table top, Skinner scanned what he could see of the destruction. Where the hell had Mulder disappeared to? "Despite your detectives' eagerness to catch the bomber, as long as there are survivors in that rubble, they deserve our fullest attention. I don't understand how you or your men could possibly object to Agent Mulder's decision."

"I'm not going to disagree with you on that." Morris paused to refill his mug. "That's why I had you called out. I don't want this to turn into another an inter-departmental squabble. The District's got enough of those hassles already. However," Morris paused again, scrubbed a hand across his chin. leaving a fresh dark trail. "However, I happen to agree. Agent Mulder knows something that's germane to the investigation."

"Why?" Skinner pulled off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. "What has Mulder done?"

"It's not so much what he's done as how he's doing it. Under the circumstances, his refusal to stop and answer questions is not unreasonable. But ..." Morris paused, rubbed the back of his neck. "This one is too damn personal. He's completely unreasonable. Holding himself personally responsible for every dead body we find." Morris kicked a stone. "You know what it's like. You get a gut instinct. You just know."

Skinner's voice dropped lower, more dangerous. "You think Mulder's responsible for this?"

"Hell no." Morris held out a hand, palm toward Skinner, as if warding him away. "But I think he knows who is."

"And you want me to get him to tell you?"

"I want you to get Special Agent Mulder of the Eff Bee Eye to help Detectives Jameson and Phillips of the Metropolitan Police Department catch a murderer. And I want you to do it before my detectives make headlines by arresting your agent for obstruction of justice."

Skinner's hand slammed the table, bouncing everything on it. A muscle ticked in his jaw. He turned his back on Tadewski and Morris, scanned in every other direction. Unreasonably relieved when he didn't see Mulder, didn't have to haul him over and ream him out, Skinner shut his eyes. No-one had ever managed to leave him shoved into a corner quite like Mulder. This particular corner had only one exit, only one possible answer. Anything else would explode in his face. He balled his fists, then turned around and forced out a single word past gritted teeth. "Fine."

Morris released the breath he'd been holding. "Thank you."

"I need some time though." Skinner flexed his fingers and tried not to think about what kind of favour Morris would want in return. Still, how bad could it be. He'd brokered deals with much dirtier characters to keep Mulder out of trouble. "If Mulder is taking all this personally, I'm not taking him apart in public. It's not worth wasting my time."

"How much time?"

Skinner thought for a moment. "In the morning. I'll talk to him tonight, away from here, then bring him to the station house after breakfast."

"10 o'clock at the station. I can keep a lid on my men till then." Morris nodded slowly.

"I'll need everything you've got on the bomb, the fire, the victims," Skinner said. "Even if you don't think it's worth much."

"No problem. I'll have copies ready in an hour," Morris answered. "We can give you the basics now."

"Fire's pretty much under control." Tadewski clicked off the walkie-talkie and seized the last, lukewarm cup of coffee, holding it with both hands. He gulped coffee in between staccato sentences. "Hoses're cooling the blastpoint now. Then we'll let the arson and bomb squads in. Rest of my men are spread out. Putting out small fires. Helping the rescue squads."

"Any injuries?"

"None of our people so far, although a couple of firefighters have used the oxygen tanks. Last count we had 16 confirmed dead, not including body parts, and 23 injured, varying from critical to superficial. All have either gone or are waiting for ambulances to take them to George Washington."

Morris took over. "Bomb disposal, arson, and forensic teams are going over all accessible areas. I've got one team interviewing witnesses who were on scene. Another going door to door. Rest of my officers are working rescue with your people. We've pulled three or four from the rubble, but I'll be surprised if there's anyone else left alive out there."

"Do we know how many people were in the gallery when it went off?"

"Apparently people came and went all night, but the receptionist figures there were about fifty or so left by the end. Most of them were on their way out the door when the bomb went off." Morris pointed to a cluster of people and equipment near a trailer. "She's been interviewed and is over there waiting for an ambulance to take her to the hospital. Smart woman." Morris added. "She had the presence of mind to grab the guestbook as she ran out of the door."

"I'll need that." Skinner slid on a pair of heavy gloves and moved around the table toward what was left of the gallery. Still no sign of Mulder. It was as if he'd disappeared.

"Not likely."

"Copies of everyone's notes?"

"Okay." Morris said, sharply, reluctantly. "Retrieving those from my men shouldn't be too much of a problem if I can promise them that Mulder will cooperate."

"He will." Skinner's lips thinned as he looked over at the bombed-out building. "He will."

~*~

For the next hour, Skinner wandered around the site, taking inventory of the destruction and looking for Mulder. He moved from team to team and helped out where needed. As his anger calmed, he worried more. Mulder could be fractious and obnoxious. He frequently aggravated police officers and FBI agents with his requests for obscure information and his insistence on following his instincts no matter where they led. But even the worst complainers usually agreed that Mulder's behaviour came out of a single-minded need to uncover the truth and expose those responsible. What could Mulder know that drove him to stonewall the police so completely?

He finally found Mulder, talking to an older woman. Her face was pale and bruised, scored with lines drawn by shock. She cradled the plastic triage cast that held her left elbow and forearm. They were too far away for Skinner to hear their conversation.

Eventually, Mulder left her with the walking wounded. She perched on a folding chair at the edge of the group. Sitting apart. The rest were constantly touching, crying, consoling each other. All were waiting for an ambulance to return from its last trip and take them to the hospital.

Mulder stared past Skinner at what was left of the gallery.

Could Mulder see him? Or was he being ignored? Skinner wasn't sure. He wanted to help Mulder, to hug him, do something to bring emotion back to that blank, shuttered face, return life to the huge, dark eyes. But that was impossible. There was nothing that an Assistant Director, that Mulder's superior could possibly do under these circumstances. He wasn't expected to comfort his agents. He'd never wanted to before Mulder.

Then Mulder met Skinner's eyes, and Skinner knew that he'd been ignored.

"Almost done here, sir. " Mulder made an abortive gesture with his right hand.

Skinner clenched his fists against the need to reach out to Mulder. He took refuge in his usual business-like attitude, betrayed only by a muscle that ticked rapidly in his jaw. "Anything useful?"

"Not sure. There was something, but ..." Mulder shrugged. "There's another piece. I'm sure of it. And when I have it, whatever it is, I'll know. Until then, there's nothing useful." He waved at someone over Skinner's shoulder.

Skinner turned his head and saw the police officer who was keeping an eye on the witnesses wave back. When he turned back, Mulder had disappeared again.

~*~

Morris caught up with Skinner over at the temporary morgue. The line of black bags had dwindled down to a handful.

"Be careful with those bags. Some of these bodies are in pretty bad shape." Morris yelled at two morgue attendants who were manhandling a black body bag onto a cart.

"And they'll be even worse when we're done." The tall black man with "Dennison" on his badge muttered to the other attendant.

"What?"

"Nothing." Dennison released his end of the bag. "Just giving Rodney directions."

"Good." Morris handed a sheaf of papers to Skinner, then asked the coroner. "Problems?"

"Nothing I can't handle, Captain." She shot a last glance over her shoulder at the attendants as they slammed the van doors shut. She wiped her forehead with her free arm. "That's the last of the bodies. The other van should be back to pick up the rest if the bags in about five minutes."

"Assistant Director Skinner of the FBI meet my favourite coroner, Sheila Felden." Morris introduced them.

Skinner held out his hand, then looked at the dirty, heavy glove and pulled it back. Uncomfortable, unsure what else to do, he nodded.

"Nice to meet you." She smiled at him, revealing deep laugh lines around her eyes. She made no pretensions to beauty. Her dark hair was clipped tightly back. A stained white lab coat hung open over a shapeless black sweater and pants. The ribbed cuffs from her long underwear extended below her sweater sleeves. Her shoes were sensible and brown.

"What's the count?" Morris asked, pulling their attention back.

"We just found those last two, so 18 dead. Then there are those." Felden pointed towards the row of oddly shaped bags. "Assorted body parts. Some of them may belong to the bodies we've already got. I've notified the lab that we'll need DNA typing to identify the rest."

Morris looked at the bags and grimaced. "I'll call them in the morning. See if we can't get them to move it faster than a rush."

"Thank you." She flipped the pages on her clipboard. "That's about all I have right now. For what it's worth, external examination doesn't show anything inconsistent with explosion and fire on any of the bodies. Anything more than that will have to wait until after the autopsies."

"Any idea how long that will take?" Morris asked.

"It will take as long as it takes." Felden met Morris' eyes. "Mark Thompson left about five or ten minutes ago to get things set up. I'll follow as soon as everything's cleared up here. Don Tigardi and Sera Chen will join us at 7 a.m. They'll help us and catch anything new that comes down the pipeline. Everyone else is already booked up. I'm assuming that you'll support an overtime request."

"Yes."

Skinner remained silent during the exchange. He'd taken mental notes of the information, but wished he had a pen and paper to write it down.

"What do you want us to take next?" This driver was short, but was shaped like a bodybuilder.

"That was fast." Felden pointed behind Skinner. "Those bags can all go."

"In one trip?" The driver took off his cap and shook out thick, blond hair, striking a pose.

"They're the parts. You'll need to be careful with them, but you won't need the stretcher. If necessary, you can stack them two deep."

"Okay." The driver waved over his partner and strutted towards the bags. Felden followed them over.

Skinner managed to reduce his smile to a vague twitching of his lips and hoped that his glasses were dirty enough to hide his eyes. He cleared his throat and asked Morris, "Is there anything I can do to help speed things up?"

"Nah. Our labs may be chronically overloaded, but they'll get the job done reasonably fast." Morris shrugged. "Just make sure you bring Mulder to the precinct on time tomorrow."

"I said Mulder will be there." Frustration and worry added bite to Skinner's words. He'd given his word. He didn't like having his word questioned. Especially when he wasn't sure how he was going to persuade Mulder to honour it.

"My deal is with you not Mulder. I want you to personally bring him to the precinct at 10 am tomorrow and stay there until he's done talking. I don't want Mulder showing up alone or with anyone else."

Skinner stared at Morris. He stripped off a glove, pushed his glasses down on his nose and massaged the bridge. He assessed his own state. Tired. Needful. Not a good time to be responsible for Mulder. Damn He examined the haphazardly parked crowd of vehicles and equipment where he'd abandoned his car. Double damn. He'd have to get his car out of there before finding Mulder again.

"Well?"

Triple damn. Pushing his glasses back up his nose, pulling his glove back on, Skinner nodded. As he walked away, he called over his shoulder, "We'll be there. Just make sure you sit on your men. I'll hold you responsible if they act early."

His bag of clothes held firmly in one hand, Skinner stood by his car and watched vehicles pull away through the remaining onlookers. One wall was starting to collapse, and Tadewski had pulled everyone out. The rescue effort was stalled until they could shore up what was left of the building. They were still calling it a rescue, although no-one believed that there was anyone left alive inside.

With most of the rescue workers standing by, a few lucky people were heading home to clean up. If they were exceptionally lucky, they'd get some sleep before called back in. If not, they'd be jittery with caffeine. If he was being honest, Skinner would admit that he didn't really care about anyone else. He desperately needed a shower and clean clothes. His own clothes. Even if he had to handcuff Mulder to make him leave.

Mulder sat on a hunk of concrete where the stairs to the upper level of the gallery had once been, looking like a child in the oversized coveralls. His body had bent in on itself. Shoulders and back curved inward. Head hanging down. Feet dangling off the edge of the concrete. When he got closer, Skinner realised that Mulder was holding a singed photograph between his hands. The coating on the picture had bubbled up, turning the image into a blur. Whoever, whatever it had been, the picture had Mulder's complete attention.

Skinner cleared his throat noisily. When that had no effect, Skinner moved until he was only a couple of steps away, then said, "Mulder?"

Mulder raised his head with agonizing slowness. He looked at Skinner briefly and returned his gaze to the picture.

"It's time to go home, Mulder." Skinner stood in front of Mulder.

"All this waste." Pain swamped Mulder's eyes for an instant, then disappeared. He complained, "I don't want to know."

Skinner stared at Mulder. What was he supposed to say?

Mulder crumpled the photograph and tossed it away. A long throw that arced toward the building, then disappeared into the rubble. "Everyone leaving?"

Skinner nodded.

"Police made you promise to take me home, make sure I report in tomorrow?" Mulder yawned until his jaw cracked. He scrubbed his face with his hands, smearing black marks over the skin and into his hair. "Let's go then."

"Sure." Skinner shook his head and followed Mulder. Was he ever going to be able to keep up with the younger man's moods? Who am I calling a younger man? Skinner berated himself. Mulder wasn't that much younger than he was. Although some days he felt light years older.

When they got to the car, Skinner reached for the keys, then loudly and vociferously cursed the coveralls. How the hell was he going to get to his keys without getting undressed. Wisely, Mulder didn't say a word, just got into the passenger seat as Skinner clumped around and opened the trunk. He skinned rapidly out of the coveralls and boots. He pulled his shoes out of the bag and shoved his feet into them, swearing again when the cold, damp leather penetrated his socks. Better than trying to drive in those damned boots, but not by much. Disgustedly, he tossed the bag, boots, and coveralls into the trunk. The Bureau was definitely going to pay for this.

Mulder didn't say a word for the duration of the trip. He slumped in the passenger seat, so far down that his knees were cramped against the dashboard, and stared out the windshield. Every so often, he would release a barely audible sigh.

Skinner tossed around a few conversational ideas in his mind, but discarded all of them as being trite. He had no comfort to offer, because he didn't know what was wrong. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't think of any reason why Mulder's boss would be asking what had upset him so badly. Skinner changed lanes just before Mulder's exit, then moved back into the middle of the highway and kept going. Getting Mulder to talk wasn't easy at the best of times, and this was far from the best of times. Skinner needed all the ammunition he could get, and that meant taking Mulder to his condo.

"That was my turn off." Mulder twisted his head to watch the exit disappear out the back window.

"I'm taking you to my place."

"All the better to interrogate me?"

"Not really." Skinner sighed. "It's late. I'm tired. You're exhausted, and you don't have a bed, never mind a spare bed."

"Yes I do."

"A deflated water bed buried under countless piles of newspapers, magazines, and pages from case files does not count as a bed."

"It's not as if I sleep there." Mulder lifted one shoulder, dropped it again. "That's what the couch is for."

"True. However, as you pointed out, I'm responsible for making sure you get to the precinct tomorrow, and I'm not sleeping on either a chair or the floor."

"Whatever." Emotion coloured the fine bones of Mulder's face. He slumped further down in his seat, closed his eyes. His uneven breathing told Skinner that Mulder was only pretending to sleep.

~*~

As the hot water pounded down on his skin, Skinner sent up a prayer of thanks to the developer who had not only put two full bathrooms in his condominium, but had arranged it so two people could have long hot showers at the same time. He washed himself again and again, soaping and rinsing his body until the water ran clear instead of black or grey. Shutting his eyes, bracing his hands against the wall, he let the water run over him. He knew what he was doing, right? Skinner snorted and shook his head. Whatever he was doing, he'd better get on with it. The hot water wasn't going to last all night.

As impatient as ever, Skinner grabbed for his glasses and strode out of the bathroom, toweling himself roughly dry. He dropped the towel into the clothes hamper, then pulled on the baggy sweatpants and long-sleeved t-shirt that he'd placed neatly on the bed before getting into the shower. The worn material was soft against his damp skin. He listened. The other shower was still running. His cock stirred against the fleece of his pants as he stared at the wall that separated his bedroom from the second bathroom. Mulder was in the shower, standing on the other side of that wall. Naked. Water sliding over his skin. Skinner's mouth was dry, aching, empty.

God, he missed Sharon. She left an hole inside him that wouldn't go away. She'd helped him, protected him, given him a shield to use against the world. And he'd done the same for her. They'd held each other up for all those years. Until she couldn't live that way any longer and had asked for a divorce. He hadn't argued. He knew what her help meant to him, what it cost both of them, and had given her everything she wanted. Despite his attorney's vociferous protests. Now he was alone, unshielded against Mulder, and he hadn't a clue what to do.

Skinner clenched his fists so tightly that his short, blunt fingernails cut into the palms. However he felt, whatever he thought he wanted, there was no place for it tonight. A shudder ran through his body as he brought his emotions back under control.

Clothes. Skinner grasped at the thought. Mulder needed clean, dry clothes. Something he could sleep in, if that was possible. He strode over to the tall, mahogany dresser. Pulled out drawer after drawer and ruffled through the contents. He grabbed a t-shirt, then a sweatshirt and tossed them on the bed. They would be too big, but that would be okay. Pants were another story. What the hell was he going to do? Absolutely none of his would fit. Hell, he didn't even have a bathrobe.

Skinner glared at the open drawer. His fingers drummed loudly against the wood. Mulder could not put those filthy, damp clothes back on. If nothing else, his cleaning lady wouldn't forgive him when she saw the couch. Skinner started a mental inventory of his clothes. When he reached the closet in the spare bedroom, he remembered. Terry. His nephew's meagre belongings were stored in boxes in that closet, while Terry was off with AmeriCorps. Mulder looked about the same size as Terry. Skinner picked up the t-shirt and sweatshirt off the bed and headed for the other bedroom.

Crouched in front of the closet, Skinner rummaged through a box marked "Clothes". He placed items that might fit in a growing pile on the floor next to him.

"Something I should know about?" Mulder leaned on the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, holding a bath sheet in place. Damp and shivering from the shower, and covered from chest to thighs in the fluffy towel, he ought to have looked ridiculous. But he didn't.

Skinner swallowed the ache at the back of his throat and dropped the shirt in his hands on top of the others. "Clothes."

"Yes?"

"Well, mine won't fit." Skinner stood up slowly, uncomfortably aware of Mulder's gaze and the soreness in his muscles and joints. "And you certainly can't put yours back on. There's a t-shirt and sweatshirt of mine on the bed. These are my nephew's. They'll probably fit better, and he won't mind if you wear some while he's gone. Help yourself."

"Thank you." Mulder's gaze never wavered. He appeared oblivious to the shivers that ran through his body.

Skinner, however, was not. "I'm going to make coffee. Come downstairs as soon as you're dressed." The pressure of Mulder's eyes followed his rapidly retreating back.

~*~

When Mulder came downstairs, the den was filled with the mingled aromas of coffee and tomato soup. Skinner sat on the couch, balancing a bowl in one hand, and gingerly blowing on a spoonful of hot soup. In front of him, covered with placemats to protect the wood, the coffee table held a thermos bottle, two full coffee mugs, a second bowl of soup, and a bag of saltines.

Mulder hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, arms folded. Skinner ignored him, concentrating on his soup, pretending that his attention wasn't consumed by Mulder's presence. By Skinner's sweatshirt being hugged tightly over Mulder's torso. By Terry's too-tight sweatpants sparking Skinner's imagination. With an effort, Skinner looked up, forced himself to focus on the dark circles around Mulder's eyes, and the finely drawn lines that stood out starkly against Mulder's heat-flushed face. Skinner coughed to clear the tightness from his throat. "Make yourself comfortable. Help yourself to soup and coffee."

"Thanks." Mulder moved slowly. At the table, he bent down and fussed over his soup, breaking crackers into smaller and smaller pieces, stirring them with his spoon. Then, he curled into the cushions at the farthest corner of the couch from Skinner. The bowl rested on his knees.

They sat quietly, accompanied by the clink of spoons against china. Skinner finished his soup rapidly and traded his bowl for a mug. He kept an eye on Mulder. Used to the heedless sprawl of long limbs in a visitor's chair in his office, Skinner he was absorbed by the possible reasons why Mulder would curl up so tightly.

Tremors occasionally shook Mulder's hands, rattling his spoon against the bowl. Otherwise, Mulder moved the spoon around in the soup. Once he brought to the spoon to his mouth. The movement stopped abruptly, aborted before it reached his lips, spattering red drops on his borrowed clothing. Mulder dropped the spoon in the bowl. He made no further attempts to imitate eating.

Skinner took the hint. He stacked Mulder's bowl and spoon on top of his own, and headed for the kitchen. Playing for time, he rinsed the dishes, stacked them in the dishwasher. The pot soon followed. He cleaned the empty can and placed it carefully in the recycling bin. Adding soap to the sponge, he wiped down the spotless counters, the sink, the taps. Playing for time. Occupying arms that would much rather enfold and soothe Mulder. Something was clearly wrong. Something to do with the explosion. Somehow, without any concrete evidence, Mulder knew who set the bomb. Maybe even knew why. All Skinner had to do was to get Mulder to tell him.

Skinner snorted. Yeah. That was all. Nothing to it. Hell, why not just wander into the den and ask him outright. Then what? Watch Mulder curl up even tighter? Or storm out of the room, heading for one of his interminable runs. Skinner frowned. Why hadn't Mulder gone for a run?

Great. Another question that couldn't be answered without Mulder. Time to stop procrastinating and work on getting Mulder to talk. Skinner straightened his shoulders and breathed deeply. After all, he'd done it before. He'd just have to keep trying until he managed to do it again. Whatever he did, though, it wasn't going to be in the kitchen. It would also take time and, tonight, time meant coffee. Lots of coffee.

The coffee maker was dripping water into the pot when Skinner went back to the den. He paused at the desk to retrieve the scribbled notes he'd commandeered from Captain Morris. They were just summaries of the official reports, but maybe something in there would inspire him. Just in case they came up with something worthwhile, he added a pen and notepad to the thin stack. Skinner returned to the couch, where Mulder still huddled in the corner. He must have moved while Skinner was gone, because he now cradled an empty coffee mug between his hands. Skinner moved things off the table, leaving one mat with thermos and his mug. He spent a few minutes reviewing the papers in his stack and attempting to put them in some kind of order.

Skinner refilled his own mug, then held the thermos in Mulder's direction. "More coffee?" He filled Mulder's eagerly proffered mug. "If you're tired, you can sleep in the room where you changed."

When Mulder didn't reply, Skinner continued, "Naps just leave me groggy and grumpy these days, so I'm going to sort through this stuff and see if anyone came up with anything useful. You're welcome to stay and help if you'd rather."

Mulder pushed deeper into the couch and drank some coffee.

Taking that as an offer of help, Skinner picked up the top sheet from the nearest pile. He jotted down notes as he read the spiky, almost illegible, handwriting aloud. "Scene of incident: Descennes Gallery. Current exhibit: retrospective of photographer Christopher Arden. 18 dead. 23 with injuries ranging from minor to critical. Unknown number missing and presumed dead. Extensive structural damage. Losses estimated in the millions."

"I just don't see this as a political or a terrorist attack." He turned to Mulder. "If any of the photographs survived the explosion, they'll be worth a mint. Even photographs in private hands or new prints made from the negatives will jump in value. Then there's the insurance money. On his life and on the gallery." Skinner shuffled papers. "Descennes was taken to GW in critical condition. Metro's got someone with him. That leaves Arden. Seems to me that we need to locate the wife or other next-of-kin, find out if Arden had a will or insurance, and who inherits."

Mulder heaved a long sigh and looked at Skinner from eyes that were red, dry, old. "He wasn't married."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

And just how the hell do you know that? Skinner thought, viciously squelching the urge to push Mulder for the answer. "That leaves a significant relationship or a close relative. Shouldn't be too hard to find out the names, since he was reasonably famous. Arden was English, right?" Without waiting for Mulder to answer, Skinner scribbled a note to himself and continued, "If Morris doesn't have any contacts in Scotland Yard, I'll offer to call someone for him."

"They could try his mother. According to Chris, she's still living in the same—" Mulder stopped abruptly and bent his head down to his knee. His hair fell forward, hiding his eyes, his face. His shaky breathing filled the room.

Chris? Who's Arden to you? Jealousy fought with the resurging need to comfort Mulder. Skinner tamped down his emotions and forced himself to go on as if Mulder had said nothing. "Assuming, of course, that they weren't at the gallery when the bomb went off." Skinner continued, "Thanks to the receptionist's quick thinking, we won't have to wait for the DNA results to identify all of the victims."

Mulder raised his head, looked quizzical.

"She grabbed the guestbook on her way out the door." Skinner's lips quirked. "I expect Detectives Jameson and Phillips are studying it as carefully as they prepared crib notes for exams."

A tremor shook Mulder's hand, belying the careful blankness that descended over his face. His coffee mug bounced, spattering drops of coffee on the leather couch and adding to the collection on Mulder's clothes.

Skinner forced himself to ignore Mulder's reaction. He continued with the first words that came into his head. If Mulder kept this up much longer, babbling senselessly was going to be the least of his problems. "I'm sure there are some people who didn't sign in, but at a show like this, most people do. Family and friends, at least. They want show their support, give him something else to read, to reassure himself, when the bad reviews come in. Or something like that."

"The bomber didn't sign the guestbook." Mulder stretched his legs and sat up, carefully setting his mug down. He examined the table, scrutinized the things Skinner had placed on the floor. Then, he got up and moved around restlessly, going from surface to surface, looking, pushing things around a bit. He squatted in front of the television and stared at the blank screen.

"No, probably not." Skinner silently congratulated himself on having the foresight to unplug the TV and hide the remote control in a desk drawer. "But someone who left the gallery before the explosion might have seen or heard something useful."

Mulder made an odd whuffing noise and rose to his feet. He grabbed the thermos and poured out the last of the coffee. One long gulp, his throat working the liquid down, and the mug was empty again. He stared hopelessly at the bottom of the mug, as if it hid whatever answers he needed.

"There's more coffee in the kitchen." Skinner suggested.

Mulder nodded absently and loped off to the kitchen, mug in one hand, thermos in the other. The uncharacteristic jerkiness was gone.

He's thinking again. Shit. Skinner frowned, massaged the spot between his brows. Must have skimmed close to at least part of the truth. And, from Mulder's reaction, the truth would cause trouble. More trouble, he amended. And the only thing that could be more trouble was if Mulder was at the opening and had signed that damned book.

"Coffee?"

Skinner jumped, rattling the piece of paper in his hand. Cursed under his breath. No-one should be able to pull themselves together that fast. "Sure. Thanks."

"You know," Skinner avoided looking up at Mulder when he held out his mug for a refill. "There are some things that just don't add up. The opening was supposed to end at 10:00 p.m. The bomb exploded more than an hour after that. If all of the guests had left on time, only the building and the photographs would have been destroyed. Did the bomber persuade some people to stay, hoping to kill them? Or did he fail to convince everyone to leave?"

Skinner glanced up. Mulder was being very quiet. Not the reaction Skinner wanted.

Coffee pot dangling from one hand, occasionally threatening to spill liquid on the carpet, Mulder stood near the window. His other hand tapped the air in front of the glass. The rest of his body was rigid, unmoving, yet vibrated with the intensity of incessant pacing.

"Guess that's another question for a guest who left early?" Skinner riffled the pages, then dropped them back on the table. He pulled off his glasses and stared through them, feeling disgusted with himself. This line of questioning and encouragement was clearly going nowhere fast.

"He," Mulder commented without turning around.

"What?"

"You keep referring to the bomber as 'he'."

"True," Skinner sighed in exasperation. Mulder was far far too good at this kind of misdirection. A useful trick sometimes, but right now.... Right now he didn't know if he wanted to hug or hit the man. "Habit, I suppose. There haven't been too many female bombers."

Mulder lifted the coffee pot and looked at it in surprise, then replaced it on the coffee table. One long stride and he was crouching in front of the television. One forearm rested across the top. The other hand pushed the on button, over and over again, as if repetition would somehow magically make it turn on.

Glasses back on, Skinner shook his head. How the hell was he supposed to get the man talking? He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Throwing a prayer upward to whoever might be listening that this would work again, he succumbed to the inevitable. His voice low, rising and falling as suppressed emotions shook through him, Skinner broke the silence. "I hate that smell. Hate the memories it drags out. Hated it in 'Nam. Hated it in Oklahoma. Hated it tonight. I hate those who create it. Hate the ones who leave them no other choice."

Head jerking around, Mulder's eyes widened. He turned and sat cross-legged, leaning back against the television. His attention was completely on Skinner.

"I can't separate them." Skinner turned his hands over, staring at them. "The odour of burned flesh and bone, of charred wood and stone. The hate. They all blend together until I can't tell them apart. I choke on the destruction as it goes down into my lungs, and the hate rises. It's all I can feel. All I can taste. Doesn't matter where I am. One smell. One sound. And everything is jungle. The stinking, swamp jungle — ripe rot — smothering me inside and out. I'm wading through the muck. Just another grunt, killing anything, anyone that isn't me or mine."

"Every time. Every goddamned time. It never stops." Skinner's lips curled in distaste, throat working against the rising bile. "No matter what I do. It never lets me go."

"Oh, I'm really really good at keeping it to myself. I close my eyes, shove it all back down, dig myself out all over again. A couple of seconds to slip the Assistant Director mask over my face. Pretend it doesn't matter, isn't happening. Just like I did tonight." Skinner rubbed his face with a trembling hand, tried to wipe off his expression. "Fucking betray them all over again. That's all I can do. Over and over again. Everyone around me dead and dying. And all I can do is betray them all over again. Just once. Just once I want to make it stop."

Eyes haunted with memories, pain etched deeply into the lines on his face, Skinner finally looked at Mulder. His voice raw, he whispered, "Why can't I ever figure it out soon enough to save them?"

Mulder pulled back the hand that had reached out across the space between them. He swallowed hard, started drumming his fingers against his thigh.

They sat in silence, watching each other.

Skinner fought the memories that once again tried to engulf him. His heart beat in time to the reverberation of bombs exploding, to the dull thud of bodies and parts of bodies hitting the ground. He concentrated on breathing through his nose. Listened to the rasping sigh of the air moving in and out. Kept his eyes on Mulder's face, anchoring himself to the present.

"How?" Mulder started. He swallowed again, leaned forward. "How do you live with it?"

"What choice do I have?" Skinner clenched his fists, viciously pushed them into his thighs. The pain helped him look down, stop looking at Mulder. "Join the rest of them under a bridge over the Potomac? Not able to kill myself. Just hoping that the weather or the drugs will do it for me?" He shook his head. "There isn't any justice, any revenge. Both sides share too much pain and death for that. So we live. We do whatever it takes."

Skinner flinched at the gentle, tentative touch on his arm, squelched the instinctive violence when he realised it was Mulder.

Mulder had moved unnoticed across the room. He was now huddled between the couch and the table. His forehead rested on the arm that stretched out and touched Skinner.

Skinner leaned back against the couch cushions, too exhausted to care whether he was supposed to get this much comfort from Mulder. When his own memories subsided, he realised Mulder was finally talking.

"I didn't want to go. Chris persuaded me. He was always good at that. At getting me to do what he wanted. Probably why we lasted as roommates for an entire year. The only roommate who did. That's why I ended up getting my own room at Oxford. No-one else wanted to share with me." Mulder didn't lift his head, barely stopped to breathe.

Skinner closed his eyes, concentrated on listening to Mulder. He didn't want to interrupt the flow. Once stopped, Mulder might not begin again.

"All those years of occasional letters and email, keeping up with his travels through the photographs. Mostly here and there in magazines and newspapers. Strange to see them all together like that. Stranger to see him at the same time. He'd changed so much. I barely recognised him. He wandered around, touching people. Hugging them. Exchanging kisses. Listening to them spout the most outrageous crap without a single sarcastic prod. Not like himself at all."

"Then it all changed. He grabbed people, tried to move them towards the door. 'Great to see you', he said. 'Everything's getting unbearably maudlin.' On and on. His suggestions about leaving getting more outrageous. The sarcasm finally pouring out, but no-one paying attention. Too caught up in their reunion to see that it was over. And I just watched from the sidelines."

"Then I couldn't watch any longer. I scribbled something in the book about lunch next week and left." Mulder's shoulders hunched closer to his ears. "I knew something was wrong, but I thought it was just Chris on his best behaviour. It never crossed my mind that ... I never ..." He gasped, then drew a shuddering breath. "All my training, all my experience, and I still can't get inside their heads until after they've killed."

Skinner didn't know what to say. He moved his hand, laid it over Mulder's, then grasped tightly when Mulder turned his hand over. Their fingers interlaced and held.

"I don't know why, but I know it was Chris." Mulder continued. "His life's work in one building, and he wanted to destroy it. Erase all the history and the people captured in the photographs. Kill himself. Leave as little as possible for the world to remember him by." Mulder squirmed a little closer to Skinner. "I can't prove it, but I know it's true."

"You don't have to. That's Metro's job." Skinner shifted, reached out, touched Mulder's shoulder with his free hand. He heard Mulder's sharp intake of breath, realised Mulder was crying, and was lost. All internal arguments ceased as Skinner slid down off the couch, pushing the coffee table away with his knee. He awkwardly drew Mulder into his arms.

Finally, Mulder stopped crying. He raised his head, and freed a hand long enough to swipe it across his nose. His eyes were red and swollen, but his gaze was steady as he stared at Skinner. "I can't."

"I know." Skinner drew Mulder closer and said thoughtfully, "We have to be at Metro by 10."

Mulder nodded. His eyes were focused inwards. "We could drop by Chris' room on the way there. See what we can find."

"I doubt Metro's finest have left anything to find."

"If they've even found it." Mulder retorted. "Chris never was one for staying in a hotel. This time he was staying in a room that he rented from an old friend of ours."

Skinner leaned his head back on the couch seat and stared at the ceiling. Why wasn't he surprised at how much Mulder knew? Shouldn't he have been surprised?

Mulder continued without waiting for Skinner to respond, "I need to find out what he did with the negatives. When he destroyed them. He must have destroyed them. There was no point in blowing up the gallery and the prints if he left the negatives intact."

"Why do you think he needed to take them with him?"

"They were his life. All the places he'd been, the people he'd met, the events he'd witnessed. And his art. He put his soul into those photographs. If one didn't meet his standards, he'd burn it, prints and negative." Mulder stopped and swore viciously. "Why the fuck didn't I see this coming?"

Skinner shook his head. There wasn't anything to say. There never was. Instead, he moved around to pull Mulder closer and held on tight.

They sat silently, lost in their own minds. Occasionally, Skinner thought he should say something to Mulder — reassure him, or be sensible and push him away — but he couldn't come up with any words that made sense. This just felt right. This thing that he'd been fighting all this time. It just felt right. And fucking terrifying, he admitted to himself in a brief moment of honesty. What was he thinking? What was Mulder thinking? Skinner closed his eyes, until an unexpected movement caught his attention and pulled him out of his thoughts.

Mulder looked sheepish, stretched his leg just a little further. "It's going to sleep," he admitted.

"What?"

"My leg. It's falling asleep." Mulder squirmed a bit more. "This is great and all, but do you think we could move onto the couch?"

"Uh sure." Embarrassed, Skinner moved too fast and they scuffled briefly, too many arms and legs, all trying to be in the same place. Then, somehow, they were on the couch. Skinner was lying on his side, against the back. Mulder faced him. Each had one arm trapped beneath them. Their legs were slightly bent, one of Mulder's slid between Skinner's legs. Pressure. Suddenly Skinner was hard. All he could feel was the pressure of Mulder's thigh on his penis, need so close to the edge of pain that he barely noticed the feather soft touch of Mulder's lips on his own.

Until Mulder kissed harder.

Skinner returned the kiss. He wrapped his free arm around Mulder, pulled him tighter, closer. Mulder matched the movement with his free arm. They each pulled the other closer and closer, kept trying to reduce the distance between them when their bodies were so tightly melded that there was no space left.

The kiss lengthened, continued. Mulder's tongue slipped between Skinner's lips, explored, increased the expanding ache in Skinner's mouth, throat, body. Free hands moved up and down each other's backs, hips, buttocks. Legs bent and straightened, pistoning with the need to touch, fiercely caressing the other. Their hips rocked, cocks rubbing through fabric.

Closer. Closer was better. Shut out the insistent voice in the back of his mind. Skinner moved his hand under Mulder's shirt. Felt the play of muscles on ribs. Tried to forget that Mulder worked for him. Concentrated on the smooth heat of Mulder's buttocks. Not going to worry now. Later could take care of itself. Not now.

Mulder's whimpers pierced Skinner's barricades, shattered his usual reserve. No thought, just the need to be closer, be comforted. Just need.

They kissed. A long, desperate kiss. Mouths aching and open. Occasionally breaking apart, so Skinner could move his lips across Mulder's cheeks and jaw, graze his teeth on Mulder's neck, lick away the tears that continued to fall.

Their harsh breathing filled the room. Skinner moved blindly, exploring as much of Mulder as he could reach. He used lips and tongue, hand and legs, chest and hips, feeling the aching loss of those places he couldn't touch.

Skinner pushed his trapped arm under Mulder, hugged him hard. Mulder reciprocated. They comforted each other, so tightly wrapped they could barely move. Their bodies rocked. Awareness reduced to the friction of cock against cock. Skinner's penis pushed against the worn waistband of Mulder's borrowed sweatpants, then broke through. The heads of their penises touched. They rocked harder, pushing their hips even closer. Urgency filled them. They moved. Harder. Faster.

Until they couldn't move at all. Pinned together. Cocks pumping. Paralysed by orgasms that shook their bodies.

They slid sideways, lay quietly with Skinner on his back, and Mulder sprawled across him. Skinner's arms held Mulder. Mulder's finger circled idly in the damp hairs on Skinner's stomach. They breathed deeply.

Mulder lifted his head from Skinner's chest, looked into his eyes, then grinned. "I feel like a teenager."

"Oh yeah." Skinner's lips twitched, then he grinned back.

Without warning, they both started snickering, then howling with laughter.

"You know," Mulder gasped when he could finally talk again. "Of all the things that I imagined us doing together, the wild sex we had in my dreams, I never ever figured we'd dry hump ourselves into one of the best orgasms I ever had."

"Dreams?" Skinner lifted an eyebrow.

"Yeah, dreams. You gonna make something of it?"

"Not me." Skinner shook his head. "I think that would be what my mother described as 'pot calling kettle black'."

"Your mother was English?"

"No. Middle America born and bred. Salt of the earth. That kind of shit." Skinner responded. "Why?"

"I heard that expression a lot when I was at Oxford. Haven't heard it much since I came back." Mulder settled down again, effectively cutting off the conversation.

As so often happened, when Mulder dropped hints about his life, Skinner was left wondering. Was he supposed to follow up on the subject? Could he ask any of the myriad questions that came into his mind, or would that be too invasive? Reluctant to do anything that would break the peace, Skinner stroked Mulder's hair.

The peace was finally broken when the alarm that Skinner automatically re-set every morning shrilled dawn's arrival. The noise got louder and louder as the seconds ticked by until it was too uncomfortable to ignore, even from downstairs.

Mulder rolled away and sat up. He cocked his head in a pale imitation of his usual sarcastic attitude. "The world's calling. You gonna get that?"

Skinner pulled himself up, grimacing at the taut, crisp feeling of dried semen on his belly. He rubbed the skin. "If I had a choice."

"I know, but even Cinderella had to go home after the ball." Mulder kissed him lightly and stood up. "Shower?"

"Definitely."

Mulder stopped at the bottom of the stairs. "Join me?" He didn't wait to hear Skinner's answer.

Skinner smiled. He should call Morris, tell him about Arden, reassure him that Mulder would talk to his detectives. He should try to negotiate more time, telling him that they needed to drop by Mulder's apartment and get him clean clothes. He should worry about what would happen tonight or tomorrow. He should figure out what to do about work.

And he would. He'd do all of that. He would.

After the shower.

~fin~


End file.
